His Eyes, Her Peppermints
by pygmymeese
Summary: Everyone knows Alex has serious, brown eyes, and Mrs. Jones has a peppermint problem. Duh. What else is there to say on the subjects? No pairings. "Maybe Mrs. Jones had tried bubble gum instead. Original flavor- she wasn't a strappleberry kind of person."
1. His Eyes

**His Eyes, Her Peppermints  
**

Part One: His Eyes

_Everyone knows that Alex has serious, brown eyes, and Mrs. Jones has a peppermint addiction. Well, what else is there to say on the subject? A __twoshot parody.  
_

**Disclaimer:** Anthony Horowitz owns Alex Rider. I do not. Therefore, I am not Anthony Horowitz, nor do I own Alex Rider. (Ah, the power of logic!)

* * *

Mrs. Jones had been waiting in her office for half an hour before he bothered to show up.

"You're late, Mr. Rider," she observed, turning from the window. Immediately, Mrs. Jones wished she had waited.

Because there stood Alex Rider, leaning against the open doorway, arms crossed against his chest. He was still in his school uniform and looked like a teenager for all intensive purposes…

Until you met his eyes.

For once, his eyes weren't obscured by fallen strands of fair hair. They were awfully visible, ready to pierce the windows of the soul of whoever dared to look. It didn't even matter if those windows were dirty; Alex's eyes were unique in that they carried a ready supply of Windex with which to clean soul-windows. Mrs. Jones' windows were _very_ dirty. Yet Alex cleaned them just the same, scrubbing off the grime and grit that had crusted into the cracks of her soul-window frames. He even got the little spot in the spider cracks from when someone had metaphorically thrown a ball at her soul-eye-window. This ability of his made her feel bare; it was as if he were a peeping Tom (peeping Alex? Tom wasn't really the type to peek). Alex was an intruder into the Spartan apartment complex that was her soul. When she had first recognised this skill, Mrs. Jones had been amazed yet again by the young spy. Apparently, Alex was not only an incredible agent, but his allegorical window washing skills were extraordinary.

But there was more to his eyes than just the soul-window phenomenon. When he gazed at you, his look was so intense that he seemed ready to shoot lasers from his eyes at any time. Not the wimpy lasers people use to point to things from across a room, but rather the kind that bore holes into concrete walls, only leaving behind smoke because the deadly red beam vaporized everything in its path. If only Ian had somehow taught Alex that skill before dying! Alex was raised with all of his other impressive abilities; lasers weren't too far of a stretch, were they? Had she raised Alex, that lesson would have been after learning basic karate, but before the kayaking lessons. Lasers definitely beat kayaking.

Mrs. Jones would have to send a note to Smithers. Actual lasers for Mr. Rider to supplement the power that already emanated from his eyes would do wonders for the agent on missions. Though she would have to be wary of Alex becoming a cyborg; Alex would be all too capable of leading a robotic takeover of London.

Even more intriguing than the intensity of his eyes were their deep, gorgeous colour. It would be blasphemy to simply call them brown! Too many inapplicable objects were also brown. Dirt was brown, but were Alex Rider's eyes dirt brown? They couldn't be; remember the Windex? Nor were his eyes the velvety brown of a moose's fur. The only characteristic that could possibly be compared between the two were the intimidating stares they both had. Alex was not known for his impressive set of antlers and no moose had ever been complemented on his (or her) spy skills. No, Alex's eyes were chocolate, a melt in your mouth dark chocolate that even held the bitterness detectable in such a delicacy.

Better yet, Alex's eyes were hot cocoa (certainly not hot chocolate because that's too graceless a phrase with which to equate Alex Rider). They were the colour of hot cocoa, the steaming, piping hot kind that's abundant with miniature marshmallows. Of course, his eyes didn't steam, nor did they actually have mini marshmallows in them; that would not only be awkward, but might also hurt quite a bit. Not that Mrs. Jones would know; her eyes were nowhere near the colour of cocoa. Maybe more of a chocolate pudding, sans the sweetness.

Perhaps those deep, dark, and ultimately delicious eyes were the reason why his enemies had a rather strange fascination with him. One look and anyone could become mesmerized, drawn into Alex's gaze. It was like staring up at a ceiling fan and attempting to catch a single blade turn around and around; dizziness eventually trounces the body and those spinning swirls of red and white commonly seen in the background of a falling silhouette became literally all Mrs. Jones could see (though her swirl colour scheme was probably affected by abnormal exposure to peppermints).

As soon as Alex had opened the door, she took one glance and fell into the deep, intense, chocolaty-with-red-swirls-and-Windex stare that was always present. Mrs. Jones was pulled in deeper...

And deeper...

And deeper...

And-

"Hey! Are you done staring?"

Mrs. Jones snapped out of her reverie. "Oh, yes, Alex, come, take a seat."

Alex shuffled in, dropping his bookbag against the side of her desk. He sat, glaring at her with those eyes.

_Note to self, cancel that note to Smithers. Alex's eyes do not need any more ammo than they already have. Also, buy hot cocoa mix, marshmallows included._

_

* * *

_

_So, I accidentally gave Alex the wrong eye color in my other fic _An Unexpected Return_, which made me realize what an _idiot_ I was (and am), which led to this. The __second half is in the works. If you're here wondering what happened to last part of other said fic, it's being edited. I want it to be PERFECT (or at least not too disappointing), so I'm spending extra time on it. Not to mention the usual life getting in the way; don't expect it until after a week. The next chapter for this little drabble-licious thing should be after that. Now, time to plead for some reviews: review please! This story was really because I wanted to experiment (I didn't even tell my beta I was posting this... if you're reading this, sorry!), see what reactions I got, if the idea itself was hated/loved/neither, which diction/syntax worked and which didn't, and all the usual reviewing basics. Even if it's just one word or even an emoticon, review! Picky critics are adored; all reviewers are cherished. Hope you liked this, and __give me your ideas, comments, questions, criticisms, witticisms, and/or limericks!_


	2. Her Peppermints

**His Eyes, Her Peppermints**

Part Two: Her Peppermints

_Everyone knows that Alex has serious, brown eyes, and Mrs. Jones has a peppermint problem. Well, what else is there to say on the subject? A twoshot parody.  
_

**Disclaimer:** This is a pretty darn weird story. Not even a broken-suspension-of-disbelief kind of weird; it's freaking random and _insane_. Anthony Horowitz is not freaking random and insane, which is why it's a good thing he owns Alex Rider and I do not.

_Thank you So1said for beta-editing! (Why are editors called betas?)_

_

* * *

_

Alex slunk down the halls of the Royal and General bank, taking his sweet time to delay his meeting with Mrs. Jones. He was feeling cross, and had no desire to see Blunt or smell the peppermint that pervaded the halls of MI6.

And... yes, there it was! Standing just outside of Mrs. Jones' office, that minty, nauseating, sickly-sweet smell rose to levels unsmelt of before. With a sigh, Alex pushed open the door and leaned against the frame.

"You're late, Mr. Rider," she said, turning from the window. And, of course, she was sucking on a peppermint.

The habit made Alex curious. Why _did_ Mrs. Jones gain such a voracious appetite for peppermints? Perhaps she felt she needed the sweetness to compensate for her distasteful work. If she had somehow linked her words, her mouth, to the death she issued day by day, the aftertaste must be strong. And Alex was pretty damn sure that death wasn't associated with sugar, ice cream, or high fructose corn syrup. In fact, death was probably sour, if sugar kept it at bay. Maybe a bit lemony? More likely, the flavour depended on the person; Alex imagined death tasted more like a grapefruit.

Then again, the reason for the peppermint problem might not have stemmed from a need for minty fresh breath. It could have been something exceedingly normal (if such a word could be applied to the MI6 head). Mrs. Jones, strange though it sounds, may have substituted cigarettes with peppermints. Admittedly, mint is a _far_ nicer scent than cigarette smoke, but Mrs. Jones smoking? She could have started as a wayward teen, trying to be as defiant as possible. Alex could see her with a ripped, grungy look, resplendent with chains and far too many zippers to be practical, mucking around with friends in the park well past curfew, alcohol and cigarettes traded freely... okay, no. Just, _no._ NOOOOO! Alex could NOT see it. Mrs. Jones? In _chains_? Alex's brain just melted from the sheer horror of the impossible image. This was Mrs. Jones, for crying out loud! No, Alex could _not _imagine a rebellious teenage Mrs. Jones. He couldn't even imagine other kids calling her Tulip (though how she got through school with that name in the first place was beyond him). She was just the type of person who seemed like a "Mrs." Even Blunt called her Mrs. Jones.

Speaking of which (a highly disturbed Alex hastily changed subject), there was no way Blunt could approve of Jones' addiction. Probably because of some rubbish tacit spy rule like, "Don't keep habits," or, "Enjoying delicious food is not allowed in rooms where death is discussed, which means the entire building." Eating peppermints to Mrs. Jones' extent was definitely habit. Blunt would have been obliged to try to eliminate Mrs. Jones' dangerous fix. Had he ever attempted to stage an (obviously unsuccessful) intervention? Maybe Blunt had insisted on sending her to group therapy, something like Peppermints Anonymous. Mrs. Jones would attend the weekly meetings zealously, every Thursday standing up to a circle of people and stating in her standard monotone, "Hi, my name is Tulip, and I'm a mintoholic," to which the group would chorus, "Hi, Tulip." After a good hour of deep and semi-honest (on her part) discussion about their unfortunate addiction, Mrs. Jones would go back to her apartment and putter around, attempting - and ultimately failing - to stay away from the packet of peppermints that was a permanent fixture on her coffee table.

But then why did Mrs. Jones choose peppermints? Alex didn't even think they were technically sweet! She might have tried a legitimately saccharine candy at first... like lollipops. Lollipops were pretty sweet. Of course, having Mrs. Jones debrief you about an impending nuclear war with a lollipop stick waggling from her mouth would be just a bit bizarre. Next thing you know, she'd come to meetings wearing a neon pink jumper and hair done up in two little pigtails.

Maybe Mrs. Jones had tried bubble gum instead. Original flavour, of course; she wasn't a strappleberry kind of person. But no matter the flavour, bubble gum would probably prove just the same distraction. Alex could imagine the silence of a still room broken by the periodical, sharp pops of a bubble. (Not even the heads of MI6 would be able to resist blowing bubbles with bubble gum. Blunt chewing gum... ha! As if. Though he could definitely use some strappleberry in his life. Maybe he had a strappleberry wife to make up for his lack of flavour.)

No, dark chocolate (the same colour as his eyes, Alex had often been told) seemed more her poison. Alex was pretty sure dark chocolate was supposed to be sophisticated, classy, healthy, and other junk like that. But then again, eating dark chocolate at the rate Mrs. Jones ate peppermints would undoubtedly cause health concerns. And an unhealthy MI6 head was only a step away from being a dead head. (Alex chuckled to himself. He hadn't meant to rhyme.)

Alex suddenly realised where he was and what he was doing. Mrs. Jones seemed mesmerized by his face for some reason. It was really rather creepy. "Hey! Are you done staring?"

Mrs. Jones snapped out of her reverie. "Oh, yes, Alex, come, take a seat."

Alex shuffled in, dropping his book bag against the side of her desk. He sat, glaring at her as the peppermint aroma made his eyes water. (Alex was beginning to dread the Christmas season; a month filled with an overabundance of candy canes sounded absolutely horrifying.) Hopefully, Mrs. Jones wasn't going to try to pull a fast one over Alex (wait... was _that_ the reason she kept the briefing rooms and offices smelling like peppermints? To numb the minds of the agents?) because he could barely think straight; only two little words kept circling around and around his brain, dominating his thoughts.

_Peppermints suck._

_

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__Authors note time! I love a bad pun, and am appalled that Tootsie Pops are an Americanism. Beyond that, I'm not going to rant about what I thought about this chapter. This way, you can give me yours without me tainting your opinion! YAY! So review. Now. Tell me what you hated, liked, loved, felt apathetic towards, anything and everything you thought while you read it! Thank you to everyone who reviewed (and read) last time. It made me happy :) I hope this story made you smile, and give me your ideas, comments, questions, criticisms, witticisms, and/or limericks!_


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